


Those First Days

by K9Lasko



Category: NCIS
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, First Day of School, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:05:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4643388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K9Lasko/pseuds/K9Lasko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t plan to leave for work until the clock edges past 0830.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those First Days

He doesn’t plan to leave for work until the clock edges past 0830. 

He knows it’s a mistake, but he does it anyway, because today he’s waiting for something, and he wants to see it, just once this year. Just once like he does every year, no matter how long it’s been. Like a ritual, or any other holiday. Thanksgiving, or Christmas, or the Fourth of July. He doesn’t mark it on the calendar, but he keeps it in his mind.

And he never forgets it.

Some years he thinks he needs it; others he thinks he’s hopelessly trapped in the past, and hopelessly searching for a feeling, a memory, a _something_ he’ll be denied for the rest of his life.

He wants to go back to those days when Kelly was still alive, and those even rarer days when he was around to be with her. Those rare months he wasn’t deployed. He remembers those times with both fondness and regret. But Shan… she’d never guilted him, never made him regret, always welcomed him back to their home, arms and heart open wide.

No. The regret is always his own.

So today he wakes up early, just before the sun. He makes the bed, dresses in loose sweats, and slips his feet into sensible running shoes. He jogs briskly for a few blocks, waves at the neighbors he knows, ignores the ones he doesn’t. Dogs bark from windows, yards, and porticos. Newspapers wrapped in plastic wait dew-covered in most of the driveways. The morning air is still heavy with the smells of summer and honeysuckle and sprinkler water.

He swings back to his place, puts on a pot of strong coffee, peels off the sweaty clothes, and bathes his aching muscles.

The clock edges closer to 0800.

He dresses for work. He’ll leave as soon as he needs to, but for now he needs to wait. He grabs a mug from the cabinet, but before he closes it, he makes sure to run a finger over the carving etched into it years ago. “KG” it reads. God, he’d scolded her over that, not for the elementary attempt at vandalism, but for touching his pocket knife when she full well knew it wasn’t to be touched, ever. He can chuckle at the memory now, but then? Kelly always did have Shan’s spark. Finally, he shuts the cabinet door, and fills the mug close to the brim. 

No cream or sugar, just black. 

He’s not the type of man to sit on his porch and watch the neighborhood, but for today, he will be, and slowly he lowers himself to the planks on the top step. Knees crack, everything seems to crack. It’s no matter that the runs and keeps active and fit, the years still pass and he still gets older.

If he squints, he can see Kelly standing out on that corner, just past the neighbor’s driveway. He can see her turn her head, hair honey red in the early morning sun and tied in neat pigtails, eyes gleaming in anticipation. She’s dressed in new clothes, new shoes, new backpack strapped to her shoulders. And if he thinks hard, he can remember those nights, the nights before these days, when she’d stay awake later than she ought to, and despite what she’d been told, and she’d go through all of the new supplies, arrange it, rearrange it.

And both he and Shannon, despite better logic, would allow it, smiling from the couch, arms around each other.

Perfect life, he always thought. They had a perfect life.

He takes a gulp from his mug, and the burn of the coffee on his tongue and lips brings him back.

Kelly isn’t on the corner, waiting, looking back at them with that smile.

There are other kids gathering. Some of the parents hang back, holding out their cell phones for the best keepsake photos and checking the time. 

He takes another gulp. Getting close now. Should be turning onto his street, from three blocks up, anytime now. He puts the mug down and notices the garage door opening across the street. The neighbor woman comes out with her six-year-old daughter in tow. She looks a bit harried, hair put up in a messy bun, clothing mismatched. But the little girl is grinning ear-to-ear. He knows this woman, in passing. She looks across the street by chance, and is surprised to see him sitting there, drinking his coffee, watching the neighborhood. She’s probably only seen him jogging, or mowing the lawn, or changing the truck’s oil. But more often, probably, she’s only seen him getting in his car and heading for work, and not getting back until well after dark.

She waves, because she was likely raised to be polite, and he waves back because maybe it’s strange for a man to be sitting on his front porch, doing nothing but watching children gather for a school bus. 

It eats at his heart, that thought. He’d been a family man, once. Luckiest man alive, until he wasn’t. Now he lives alone here, wives come and go, and he’s got nothing better to do than drink coffee and sit here and think about what they’re saying at work, considering his tardiness.

He’s watching the woman’s back now, and her little daughter, skipping along. New clothes. New backpack. Pig tails swinging. They hurry toward the others. There’s no time to spare. A yellow bus comes to a stop at an intersection three blocks up, turn signal on. Soon it lumbers their way. It takes its time, but finally it pulls noisily up to the curb, lights flashing, red stop sign flipping out.

The parents hug their children. They take more photos.

He keeps drinking his coffee, and when he closes his eyes, he can see the back of Kelly’s head disappear into that bus.

The engine roars, and then it’s on its way. It’ll turn off his road five blocks up, where it’ll head east toward the elementary school.

His neighbor doesn’t look his way as she heads back inside. He’s glad she doesn’t stop to share empty pleasantries. Glad she doesn’t stare at him like she had before, as if he doesn’t belong in this moment, as if he shouldn’t.

This was his life, too. Once. Years ago, and what seems like several lifetimes ago. But it was his.

There’s a sudden buzz in his pocket. It takes a bit for him to dig out the cell phone, and when he does, he doesn’t bother with the caller ID. Just flips it open and grunts, “Gibbs.”

A familiar voice bursts from the other end. Endlessly peppy, with a side of ceaselessly annoying. He doesn’t need to be looking at the guy to see DiNozzo’s smiling mug in his mind’s eye, and the kid’s already yakking, something about being late and being worried and just calling to make sure everything is okay.

He gets up, grabs the coffee mug, and heads inside, phone cradled between ear and shoulder.

Time to get on with the living.

“Yeah, yeah, DiNozzo,” he says, “I’m coming. I’m coming.”


End file.
